


The Last Enemy

by creatingconstellations



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:04:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatingconstellations/pseuds/creatingconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is all you know. You wake and you go off to kill. You sleep and you relive the killing. Death is your clock. Death is in charge. Sometimes you really want to punch death in the mouth. </p><p>Following Lily Evans' ongoing relationship with death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Enemy

You are eleven and death is not but the tiniest speckle of a thought in your head. How could it be when you are surrounded by magic and wonder and dreams and you are at an actual school for  _magic_  how could it get any better than this?! (Tuney could have stopped scowling when she saw you off at the train, but you’re sure she’ll understand, she is your sister after all). 

You dance and sing and skip down the corridors as Sev races to catch up with you, calling out  _Lily! Lily wait up!_ But how could you slow down when you are surrounded by the stuff of dreams and Disney movies and your skin is turning to stardust between your fingers. You have not a care in the world, because there is magic and if there is magic there is hope. And if there is magic there certainly cannot be death. 

(But if you really did have to say what death was, its obviously having to interact with that git James Potter and his friends). 

* * *

 

You are twelve and you still sing and dance down the corridors but not as much as you used to. You learn that magic is hard, like  _really_ hard, but you would never stop trying because you know the shiver that graces down your spine and the tingle you get in your fingers when you perform a spell correctly. You don’t know how to describe the feeling, but the best word seems to be  _infinite._

You work hard, pushing yourself and fighting because you heard what those Slytherins said about you and you have to show them that you  _belong_ here, that you are just as powerful as they are. Maybe even more. But sometimes on Saturday nights when you cannot study anymore because all the letters are blending together and Lily you need to stop or you’re going to set the whole dorm on fire next time! Sometimes on those nights you and your dormmates race down the stairs and find abandoned corridors and spin around and laugh and scream at the top of your lungs and in those moments you float away into the sky, fading into stardust once again.  _You_  are made of the stuff of dreams and Disney movies.  _You_  are magic _._

 _(_ If you were asked at twelve what death was, you would have said late night studying for transfiguration).

* * *

 

At thirteen you decide that death is Hogsmeade weekends with Benjy Fenwick. You will  _never_ put yourself through that again. Not only does he have nothing interesting to talk about, he constantly persists on talking about his un-interesting life.  _Did you know this? and Oh by the way that._  The worst part is that the whole time you could see Potter and his friends having a snowball fight in the field and you desperately wanted to join them. You even get so desperate at one point that you subtly ask if you can go join them, but Benjy only laughs haughtily and proceeds to tell you all about the  _dangers_ of snowball fights for Merlin’s sake.

That night you flop down on your bed and exclaim to all of your dormmates that you are never talking to Benjy Fenwick again and if they have any common sense they should abstain from the practice as well. (Yes, you may have kissed him at the end of the day anyways, but that was only because it was your first date ever and you felt like that was obligatory). 

You proceed to avoid Benjy for the rest of the year, but one time in your mad dash to get away from his pestering questions you duck behind a tapestry and when you move to get out from behind it a few minutes later you see Sev talking to his Slytherin friends and thats when you hear him say it for the first time. That awful word. That word that made you cry for hours after it was spit at you for the first time in second year. It rolls of his tongue with bitterness and disgust and you have to hold back your sob. It doesn’t matter that he’s not talking about you but some Ravenclaw first year you don’t know, it still hits you like a brutal slap.  _This is what it’s going to be like,_  you think. Then:  _is that really what I am? No better than mud and disgust?_ You run out from your hiding place, tears flowing freely down your cheeks, Sev’s calling after you, but his words are a whisper to the rushing sound in your ears.

You don’t even know where you’re going, but eventually you run into Potter. The boy who always has a joke at the ready, pulling pranks and hexing Slytherins in the hallway. The boy who seems to be made of pure stars and cheeky ones at that. This boy takes one look at your tear stained face and simply wraps his arms around you. 

(You amend your statement that death is Hogsmeade weekends with Benjy Fenwick, but it’s also the feeling of your heart shattering at the sound of that word and the feeling that it will never be put together again. You also decide that happiness is having him wrap his arms around you without asking a question, but you are not as keen to admit that).

* * *

 

You are fourteen and you do not skip down hallways anymore, you even find yourself rolling your eyes at the First Years who do. A part of yourself misses the days when you thought magic was hope and that you could float away into stardust up far away from your problems. 

 You are still friends with Sev. It took all summer for you to accept his apology, but you still have the feeling that something is wrong. You decide that you don’t totally forgive him yet. But the thought of your friendship ending is like the thought of the sky crashing down around you, bursting into a thousand sharp shards of stars. You think that if the sky fell down you would probably die. Death is the thought of not having anyone. Because Petunia still won’t speak to you, and you spent many summer nights with your head flat against your pillow so that it would muffle your sobs as you listened to the yelling going on downstairs. You know you have Marlene and Mary and Emmeline, but somehow you still can’t bring yourself to give him up. 

James Potter yells at you when he finds out. The whole common room is shaking and the walls are crumbling around you as he screams,  _Lily what are you doing? Do you not remember what happened last year? Why would you do this to yourself?_  You scream right back,  _You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Potter! Just stay out of my life, I can make my own decisions!_  He simply stalks up the staircase to his dorm and you get the distinct feeling that you are standing in a battlefield but neither of you won. 

(Death is the feeling that despite all of your precautions and worries, you may already be alone).

* * *

 

Fifteen is the year that you wish you could forget. Death is the feeling that you are drowning in tears and uncertainty and  _hate,_ death is gulping for air as you scream because you knew this would happen, you  _knew_ it, but it still hurts like hell. Death is losing a friend and watching him tear down every memory you have ever had, tainting it with blood. This you are sure of. 

It had been bubbling inside him for a while, and there was nothing you could have done to stop it, you know this, and yet you wish. Wish upon the stars and the hope you used to believe in that you could go back in time and fix all this, because somehow this oasis, this place that held so much promise has turned to shit. And you are digging your nails into you palms because it’s all your fault. Yours and Sev-  _Snape’s,_  and Potter’s. 

You are fifteen and you do not see how anything could get better. You work hard at school, but you do not see a point to it, you do it only because that is what your parents expect. It is what  _you_ expect. Or at least what you used to. You know there is a war brewing outside these castle walls, and you know it is aimed at you. You and your stardust magic and your hope that you wish you still had. It is aimed to kill you. And a part of you wonders why they haven’t just gotten it over with.

(Death is the feeling you get every time you see face, the twisting of your stomach and how your lungs seem to collapse in on themselves. Death is the feeling that maybe there isn’t any magic after all).

* * *

 

You are sixteen and life is getting better. Against all odds you are friends with James Potter, and he has made you smile for the first time in a while. There is a war getting closer everyday, but it couldn’t matter less. Not with your star speckled cheeks that hurt from doubled-over 1am laughter, and your late night dances down the corridors, and its like you’re eleven all over again. 

But James Potter cannot protect you from everything. He may try, but even he does not have that power. He can’t protect you from Mulicber who finds you during your rounds one night and puts you in the hospital wing for a week. He can’t protect you from the letter that comes in the mail one day and the way you collapse right there in the great hall, fading in and out of consciousness. He cannot protect you from death and all it’s affects, but oh he wants to. He lets you cry on his shoulder as you sputter out stories about your dad and he pulls you close and tells you he won’t leave you. You want to believe him.

 He cannot protect you from Slughorn’s double-edged compliments of  _Oh you are so talented for a muggleborn!_  You want to tell him that you’re bloody proud to be a muggleborn and that it shouldn’t matter that your parents aren’t wizards but accountants, you are still fucking worth something just like everyone else in this school. But you don’t. You just laugh lightly and nod, as if this “compliment” isn’t a knife to the chest, another reminder that you are not safe. 

Death, you think, will probably be swift when it comes, a killing curse you won’t see coming. You will die with valour in your heart and determination in your eyes. You plan to fight, and you know that, but you are not delusional enough to believe you will all make it out alive. You do not want to die, but you think that maybe when you do you will go join the stars and that will be enough for you. When you tell James this one night huddled by the fire, he yells at you and tells you not to think like that because if you give up already, there is no chance in hell for him. In that moment, you love him. It is the first of many. 

(At sixteen, death is but a thought you have sometimes, it is a reality you wish you could escape).

* * *

 

You are seventeen and death is a day without his kisses. You know that sounds stupid but if you are going to fight and you are going to live in the reality that you could be gone at any moment, then you do not want to spend a day without kissing him. 

You make plans. You sing and you laugh and you scream and you cry and you believe and maybe that’s good enough and maybe its not. Maybe it doesn’t really matter in the long run. 

You try to forget but death is like a fog that has seeped into your mind and haunts you in the night. Finding joy in your screams and the shaking of your hands. You try to focus on school but every corner you turn down there are more people that you know in six months you will be fighting against. It doesn’t help that one of them used to be your best friend. It doesn’t help that he looks at you like you are a prize he deserves. It doesn’t help that you do not recognize him anymore. 

(You are seventeen and death is death. There is no other way to put it. It is the end all be all, the only thing that really matters).

* * *

 

Eighteen hits you like a blow to the stomach. You are expected to be an adult. You do not feel like one. You cry more than you laugh. You cry so much it turns to laughter. James is quiet and so are you, both haunted by things you do not dare tell the other. 

You are eighteen and you have already seen 4 of your friends die. You ask yourself when it stops. You do not know. You turn to James because he is all you have and you are all he has. You take comfort in each other. You whisper in the middle of the night, telling the other about your sins, tears covering both of your pillowcases. It is an unspoken rule that none of these chats are mentioned in the morning. 

Death is all you know. You wake and you go off to kill. You sleep and you relive the killing. Death is your clock. Death is in charge. Sometimes you really want to punch death in the mouth. 

But there are moments. Moments of happiness, and thinking that this is what life should be. There are moments that remind you why you are fighting. These are the moments you live for. These are the moments made of stardust and hope and dreams and Disney movies and everything else you believed in when you were eleven. These are the moments that matter. 

(Death, you think, can go fuck itself).

* * *

 

You have made it through another year. That’s what nineteen is: another year. Another year of fighting and dying and believing. You go out with James, because he says that you are still teenagers and that you have to enjoy life. You end up passed out drunk and James carries you home. The night is not so bad. 

You move into a house in Godric’s Hollow and paint all the walls a different colour. Every time you come home, no matter what state you are in or what you have seen, you smile and the bright orange wall that greets you. This is your life. And it’s fucked up and awful at times, but it is beautiful.

Death seems trivial. As constant and absolute as the sun rising. It is a part of your life that you must deal with. You do not want to, you try your best not to, but when James comes home with that look in his eyes that you will never forget, telling you that Marlene is dead, you finally face the facts. You are dying. James is dying. Everyone is dying. The whole fucking world is dying. And there is nothing you can do about it. 

You cry for days after that. Marlene, your friend, Marlene, who loved chocolate frogs and braids and leather jackets and songs about love, Marlene is dead. Just like everyone else. 

Death is everywhere. Gnashing its teeth together down dark alleyways and swallowing everyone and everything in its path. You try to live with this fact. But it seems impossible. You hug James around the waist every night, praying to whoever or whatever is up there, maybe even to death itself, that he stays alive. Because if he is next on the long list of the fallen, it will be the end of you. He is all you have and all you know. He is the centre of your universe. 

(At nineteen, death is not always knowing if he’s okay; death is but a formality you must deal with). 

* * *

 

You are twenty and holy fuck you are having a kid. You do not know what to do. You cry because you are happy and you cry because how the hell could you bring a child into this world? 

You find out about the prophecy and your world crumbles. Suddenly your rainbow house has become a prison cell. You know this is what you must do, but it is so hard to know that your friends are out there dying for you, and you cannot do the same.

You are twenty, but you are still a kid, and James is still a kid, yet you are raising one. You hope you don’t fuck it up. You laugh with Harry as he grows, and smile in awe at this being that is before you, this little human that you and James created. That joy is your new favourite feeling. 

You sing songs at the top of your lungs and dance around the house with Harry. You find yourself filled with golden hope again at the site of him. He is your life. And it’s a fucking fantastic one. You forget about death for a little while.

But you are still cooped up in here. There is a skylight in the bathroom, and one night you take Harry in there and show him the sky, silent tears falling down your cheeks as you tell him about the stars, you tell him that he is made of stardust and hope, that he shines just as bright as any of the stars up there. You think that maybe this would not be the worst place to die, looking at the stars and going to join them.

James gets restless. (So do you, but you are better at hiding it). He paces and pulls at his hair, banging the bright purple wall in your bedroom. He speaks quietly - not wanting to wake Harry -  _I cannot do this, we can’t just stay here while they are dying out there, Lily! They are dying out there for us! For Harry! How can we stay in here when that is going on?_  You cry with him that night. Sitting against the purple wall, you tell him that you want to leave too, but if they are fighting for Harry, if they are  _dying_ for Harry, then you have to do your damn job and protect him. You feel James nod against your shoulder. You entwine your fingers with his and sigh, letting the tears fall. This is a lot more than you thought it would be at seventeen. 

Death still controls your life. 

(You are twenty and still a kid and death is something you pray will never touch your son with its icy hands. Death is not as valiant as it once seemed to be).

* * *

 

At twenty-one, death takes you as it’s own. You always knew it would. That day is filled with betrayal and pain and everything you never thought death could be. You did not go out with a bang, did not even have a wand to defend yourself with, only your love and determination to protect your child. 

You do not have time to think. You run when James says to. You want to tell him you love him, but there is no time. You want to go back to the days of skipping down corridors and believing in magic. You want so much, but there is no time. 

When you hear his body hit the floor, you gasp for air.  _This is death,_  you think,  _surely I cannot go on now._ But your son is still crying in your arms and you know that you will not let him die. Over your fucking dead body. 

You whisper to him in those final moments, telling him you love him, knowing somehow you will not be together in whatever will come next. You beg for mercy, you no longer care about proving your worth and standing up against these bastards because this is your son and you will do whatever you have to. 

It doesn’t matter in the end. Your death is as swift as you had thought it would be. In those last moments you wish against everything, that Harry lives. He has to live. 

Your life continues to be ruled by death until the end. It was foolish of you to ever think you were actually in control. You spat at it and you stomped on it, but in the end, it got you too. Like it gets everything, dragging it up into the stars. 

(Death is made of stardust, but so are you. Death does not care about the world, but you do. Death does not like to be defied, but you defied it time and time again. Death is the first enemy, the last enemy, the only enemy that really matters. You destroyed it.  _You_  are magic). 

 

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think?
> 
> Talk to me about it on [Tumblr ](http://expectoepatronums.tumblr.com/)


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